tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-248132432024-02-18T22:46:17.457-05:00Late Night MeanderingsRandom thoughts and stories, occasionally illustrated.An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-35898674531990044762008-01-05T23:06:00.001-05:002008-01-05T23:19:09.835-05:00Ice is Nice<embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf" width="400" height="267" flashvars="host=picasaweb.google.com&RGB=0x000000&feed=http%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2Ffburnside%2Falbumid%2F5148513185265300513%3Fkind%3Dphoto%26alt%3Drss" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed><br /><br />When I awoke this morning, I was mildly surprised to see a skim of ice had formed on the lake. It IS that time of year, I suppose, but the ice usually forms at the lake's extremities first, giving ample warning. This morning's ice seemed to cover most of the lake. Why "warning," you might well ask. For those not familiar with lakeside living, ice can ruin a dock. It tends to move, especially as it thaws in the spring. What you want to avoid at all costs is having the ice form firmly around the pilings that hold up your dock, for when it begins to move, it will take the pilings with it, and in the extreme case, the dock in question will lose its support and end up in the water, which would put a crimp in next summer's festivities.<br /> <br />To prevent this, dock owners install an "ice-away." In the old days, a channel perhaps three feet wide was cut in the ice by hand with large saws around the perimeter of the dock to give the ice somewhere to move without causing damage. In a very cold winter, this had to be done every few weeks. I have fond memories of blocks of ice several inches thick arranged like a crystal Stonehenge around the old dock. It is much easier to simply push the cut blocks out of the way under the surrounding ice, but the old fellow who cut ours knew we liked to ice skate, and he pulled some of the blocks up and set them upright to make an obstacle course of sorts. His motive, as I think of it, was probably to create a sort of fence so that we would not to come too close to the channel, but we skated around them nonetheless.<br /> <br />Manual cutting was replaced with power cutting, and our old gentleman created a thing that looked for all the world like a plow, but it had a gas engine and a huge circular blade. Even so, it was tough and frigid work. The next evolution was the "bubbler." It seemed that someone had discovered that if you could create a disturbance in the water and brings some of the deeper, "warmer" water to the surface, the combination of the turbulence and the warmer water would keep the ice from forming. So the bubble consisted of a length of hose sufficient to surround the dock with little pin holes in it. the hose was weighted to make it sink to the bottom. The end of the hose was attached to an air compressor which forced a stream of tiny bubbles through the pin holes and created the turbulence from the bottom up. It was a quantum leap beyond sawing, but it still had its problems. Sometimes the holes would clog or the compressor would give out.<br /> <br />The bubbler was replaced maybe 30 years ago by the current state of the art - the Ice-Away. It's a classic example of a simple solution to a vexing problem. The same effect - bringing the warmer bottom water to the surface with some turbulence - was found to be easily accomplished by a submersible propeller facing upward. Sometimes the propeller, or fan, is on the end of a long pole, sometimes suspended by a pair of lines attached to cleats on either side of a boat slip. Unless your dock is quite large, one of these babies will keep you ice free.<br /> <br />But you have to remember to put it in about this time of year, and I had not. So I called up good neighbor Joe and we got it done in about ten minutes. It's a two man job, not because there's any exertion involved, but because you have to have someone on each end of the ropes. Plug it in - voila!<br /> <br />That's probably more than you wanted to know about the annual Ice-Away rite, but it leads neatly into today's photo offering. After Joe retreated to resume his holiday festivities, I took a wistful walk around the shoreline and I noticed an odd sound - creaking, a bit of crackling, and even bit of scraping. The ice was moving! There was a slight breeze out of the northeast, and as the very thin ice had begun to break up as the day warmed a bit, it broke apart and was carried by the breeze.<br /> <br />Taking a closer look, I discovered something worth preserving, and I hope you will agree!An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-44480126677133341872008-01-05T22:54:00.000-05:002008-01-05T23:03:24.725-05:00More Ice<embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf" width="400" height="267" flashvars="host=picasaweb.google.com&RGB=0x000000&feed=http%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2Ffburnside%2Falbumid%2F5152189217709176225%3Fkind%3Dphoto%26alt%3Drss" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed>An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-56071186404735296952007-10-24T20:22:00.000-04:002007-10-24T20:24:03.459-04:00Psalm of NatureMonday night after a hectic work-related weekend and post-mortem with the boss. Need to decompress. It’s the 8th of October and still pushing 80 degrees as the sun sets over the far hill. Good time for a kayak ride. Work the stress out. I crank it up away from the dock and around the near shore for about a mile. That’s my routine – work hard going out and up wind, coast home. There’s merely a breath of wind tonight and all the motor boats are gone. Imagine that! Hot night, calm waters, no motor boats – perfect.<br /><br />By the time I get back in front of my dock I am illegal. It is dusk and I have no lights. But there are no boats, so I don’t care. I turn to the west and drift, pull out a pre-filled pipe and light up. A flight of geese goes over, squawking in confusion over the summer night in October. Joni Mitchell comes into my head – “See the geese in chevron flight, flappin’ and a-racin’ on before the snow…”<br /><br />Ahead of me is a canvas of color. The sun is gone, but her memory is in the smudgy orange around the low-lying charcoal clouds and in the few that still hint of white higher in the sky. The modernist brush strokes of nature in my own gallery. There is Jupiter, and another point of light to my right. I resolve to stay out until there are too many stars to count. Two.<br /><br />The canvas is repeated in the water below, but it is kinetic. The occasional breath of air is too weak to unflatten the water, but it creates a dappled rippling effect – the brush strokes of the pointillist – a contradiction of stillness and motion. And the cross-genre painting is framed, not with the conventional frame that surrounds the work, but cuts it in two precisely at the middle – the hills that are now black, punctuated by the occasional sparkle of a house or street light in subtly varying colors – blue, orange, yellow dots where the water meets the land, reflecting like candles.<br /><br />Look up again – five stars. Is there any more exquisite hedonism than resting on a still body of water, smoking a pipe and counting stars, surrounded by a painting of nature? The charcoal clouds are nearly black now, the ones overhead have disappeared. An occasional bat flutters by. Here and there a fish surfaces briefly with a plunk – one less fly for the bats.<br /><br />Seven now – no, eight. I wouldn’t have seen the last one except that it is nearby to a brighter one, and that off-the-center of the eye thing brought it to me. Up on my porch where the light is on, I can see my cat Scarface observing me from the window sill – still and eternal as the sphinx.<br /><br />I think of parallel universes. The one above me and the one reflected below me – everything in mirror image, but through an imperfect mirror – similar, but different. I cannot see myself in the parallel universe and I wonder if I’m there. Or Scarface.<br /><br />Twelve. They are coming faster now. There is no sunlight left, the clouds have blended into what remains of the navy blue to the west. I feather lightly with the paddle and rotate slowly in a circle – my gallery is 360 degrees. I see many more stars, but I return to face west and restrict my counting to that hemisphere. Eighteen – no, that’s an airplane – seventeen.<br /><br />A shooting star! Doesn’t count, but it doesn’t hurt the painting at all. Gone in a moment, but leaving a memory. Just like the stress – only a memory. All is serenity, peace, quiet. I look toward the dock; I have not left a light on. Scarface stares back at me from up on the porch. It is time. I look up again. I have missed the moment – there are thousands. This is the Psalm of Nature.An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-61318893259996300522007-07-05T23:51:00.000-04:002007-07-05T23:52:11.790-04:00Photoleo, on and around Independence Day<embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf" width="400" height="267" flashvars="host=picasaweb.google.com&RGB=0x000000&feed=http%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2Ffburnside%2Falbumid%2F5083912869046253281%3Fkind%3Dphoto%26alt%3Drss" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed>An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-42532699405033916032007-06-25T16:58:00.000-04:002007-06-25T17:50:53.134-04:00Punting on the ThamesWell, almost.<br /><br />More like paddling on the Susquehanna. But with a little imagination...<br /><br />Wait! Why don't you just come along for the ride?<br /><br /><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf" width="400" height="267" flashvars="host=picasaweb.google.com&captions=1&RGB=0x000000&feed=http%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2Ffburnside%2Falbumid%2F5080102278894218369%3Fkind%3Dphoto%26alt%3Drss" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed><br /><br />By the way, if you can't see the slide show, PLEASE let me know. We're on the edge of technology here. I rather LIKE using the edge of technology to bring you little getaways from our immersion in bits, bites, blogs and blather, and if it doesn't work, well that sort of defeats the whole idea.An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-69791384071928346412007-02-04T00:51:00.000-05:002007-02-04T02:08:38.272-05:00Four Bohemians and a Lonely Throwback<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLEj0NaRjaijlODflVefFwFEIt2ZRepp1tbeB8fK_zUbf8jRcJ9Y2MYsaY8_1uEWk4xTlvcNFgz6rzGMrIHctKhQGe_EXcsekYM8SuarEBXUGS9pCu-BjBO923smf0LM-BC3pC/s1600-h/2007_02030001b1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5027553861689584546" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLEj0NaRjaijlODflVefFwFEIt2ZRepp1tbeB8fK_zUbf8jRcJ9Y2MYsaY8_1uEWk4xTlvcNFgz6rzGMrIHctKhQGe_EXcsekYM8SuarEBXUGS9pCu-BjBO923smf0LM-BC3pC/s320/2007_02030001b1.jpg" border="0" /></a>It was a bitter cold day, but the cabin fever was at a peak. Sitting on the porch warmed by the fire, the view outside was deceptive - a bright clear day, begging to be photographed - but the frost on the door told the true story.<br /><br />Nonetheless, remembering that <em>La Boheme</em>, Live from the Met, was due to begin at 1:30, I fugured you could have worse days than motoring around in the company of the four friends and their ladies looking for pictures.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwxLzbm5NQY7-5K8xSBkPLniUSbOlSrTIyz1VuxBpusxKLPMJ1X3njifKTL8-98WcmUE5I6NkCteBv6ajXviVxjN8CpZ-J9PmitLwy6sJNpU79mKhb_t9EmiomYs4Xwyntsaaj/s1600-h/2007_02030005b2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5027554089322851250" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwxLzbm5NQY7-5K8xSBkPLniUSbOlSrTIyz1VuxBpusxKLPMJ1X3njifKTL8-98WcmUE5I6NkCteBv6ajXviVxjN8CpZ-J9PmitLwy6sJNpU79mKhb_t9EmiomYs4Xwyntsaaj/s320/2007_02030005b2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />And so I set out, soon encountering a hockey game the way hockey games SHOULD be played - out in the open air, under a bright blue sky... and in a brisk wind!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIxYp34rm5YegCHVRGoe4aHS2qOR4LDVBYyRGNqBuo-yEuT1pYIYHBlyZUR1X-AOxE84ECGgA8KYxtKPrNr6PVS_jcbtgDbHgqvpiPLtPb5S8IK5ZxTBp2epDzyjNzRk2z_StO/s1600-h/2007_02030008b3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5027569065873812546" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIxYp34rm5YegCHVRGoe4aHS2qOR4LDVBYyRGNqBuo-yEuT1pYIYHBlyZUR1X-AOxE84ECGgA8KYxtKPrNr6PVS_jcbtgDbHgqvpiPLtPb5S8IK5ZxTBp2epDzyjNzRk2z_StO/s320/2007_02030008b3.jpg" border="0" /></a>As Act II was winding down, I came upon a bench waiting for someone - Godot, perhaps, but it reminded me of the bench in Act III, where Mimi & Rudolfo decide to wait until Spring to separate - a Spring which Mimi hopes will never come. For her it does not, but for Rudolfo, well, it's another story.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3JIRuWE5Wqan0U2OaZLze02ON1zjXaalThRDjuk3VWGyXTDysIW9KP9g9kccgFrNs31bJPXrnnzN_OARrMJsK6SFatMfGD6BpKVAjVTE8xU-FqUOVfTJM6SltoeEpInGF21vK/s1600-h/2007_02030013b4.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5027556945476103122" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3JIRuWE5Wqan0U2OaZLze02ON1zjXaalThRDjuk3VWGyXTDysIW9KP9g9kccgFrNs31bJPXrnnzN_OARrMJsK6SFatMfGD6BpKVAjVTE8xU-FqUOVfTJM6SltoeEpInGF21vK/s320/2007_02030013b4.jpg" border="0" /></a>Not too far from the bench and the frozen pond was a little stream which, with a little imagination, became magic.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNVWz4KdoAsf53ZcFzd_HeiH-O8UgUT0M7b2-0b4UKwVooBraxw3acRfVBOaWllwmCPV8VitwUn-adt0xSYKKVtoUmsFodhvNkNd8VZWzvUyZ_5pvAng0_Vq-NCpSSYplQfxi2/s1600-h/2007_02030029b6.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5027561682825030658" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNVWz4KdoAsf53ZcFzd_HeiH-O8UgUT0M7b2-0b4UKwVooBraxw3acRfVBOaWllwmCPV8VitwUn-adt0xSYKKVtoUmsFodhvNkNd8VZWzvUyZ_5pvAng0_Vq-NCpSSYplQfxi2/s320/2007_02030029b6.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Rickett's Glen was deserted - just the way I like it.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnqvn3De_XA6XY_cmLPEqcFL7jyLh51A57Mhuf0kRx-Huexqc0_5qyCTWXmjkxZ1-LCpJO_AwODpBwLSTh7QJ2dqhF2sCl36Kju-do4CWq-JmOhH4ho_cHbASqMkxwqycFwsVJ/s1600-h/2007_02030022b5.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5027570874055044178" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnqvn3De_XA6XY_cmLPEqcFL7jyLh51A57Mhuf0kRx-Huexqc0_5qyCTWXmjkxZ1-LCpJO_AwODpBwLSTh7QJ2dqhF2sCl36Kju-do4CWq-JmOhH4ho_cHbASqMkxwqycFwsVJ/s320/2007_02030022b5.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN45dunZy_w5Qqz9fcsNekHmQRmNKKgNp_t3jHsdBo_9nTxZ1EPPcqap1FYtiPqdvwIjcMH5xUERjj9nYFuDSdwy-mxqFB0EPsTQ1wSytDiAGXSkVAYdjUl9dRYPSwdhvCusRf/s1600-h/2007_02030033b7.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5027570878350011490" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN45dunZy_w5Qqz9fcsNekHmQRmNKKgNp_t3jHsdBo_9nTxZ1EPPcqap1FYtiPqdvwIjcMH5xUERjj9nYFuDSdwy-mxqFB0EPsTQ1wSytDiAGXSkVAYdjUl9dRYPSwdhvCusRf/s320/2007_02030033b7.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9p2ni3vBdy0r3LHo0fC7UYQXddGxh-KN8v5lpGjRQCDMtdUm6059VKUnxvLJLjHzgN7Xaox_YI1jNpTiPwlo_7qyNINVnHtVNQe0qc4xJDLLUOQ3Po0vdaAwyhcagFSGd8z9Q/s1600-h/2007_02030036b8.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5027568125275974706" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9p2ni3vBdy0r3LHo0fC7UYQXddGxh-KN8v5lpGjRQCDMtdUm6059VKUnxvLJLjHzgN7Xaox_YI1jNpTiPwlo_7qyNINVnHtVNQe0qc4xJDLLUOQ3Po0vdaAwyhcagFSGd8z9Q/s320/2007_02030036b8.JPG" border="0" /></a>There's a funny thing about favorite operas and lonely, frigid days. In the opera, you can always bring Mimi back to party again with the old gang. And with wintry days, you can always find beauty and serenity in the hills. And with a little help from a friend, you can find the warmth you thought was missing.<br /><br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9A47jjM6q1Mk1zTFZXEUX8dfUIxi5obSfg3_1vDuwdscmN94QvdXYxG7NKFssU3NDmaIcGeOd0HRzVQF_xThP39-VzL8MNSIfr_243YM4YC125kxUV4bq3c2MY9Q_gk6-TRsK/s1600-h/2007_02030039b9.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5027561687119997986" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9A47jjM6q1Mk1zTFZXEUX8dfUIxi5obSfg3_1vDuwdscmN94QvdXYxG7NKFssU3NDmaIcGeOd0HRzVQF_xThP39-VzL8MNSIfr_243YM4YC125kxUV4bq3c2MY9Q_gk6-TRsK/s320/2007_02030039b9.jpg" border="0" /></a></p>An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-38036397302749100162007-01-22T00:03:00.000-05:002007-01-22T00:40:40.876-05:00Mission Aborted - USMC Preempts Troop Strength for Family ValuesAs some of my blog readers may know, son Michael was to be Commissioned 2nd Lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps today at 10am in Pittsburgh, having completed his BA on a slightly extended schedule (continuing an honorable tradition begun by his father) at Carnegie Mellon.<br /><br />Not wanting to spend the night in the 'Burgh, this took some pre-planning on my part. I managed to avoid a nap all day Saturday, avoiding ennui and boredom with a mediocre movie, a brisk walk and a visit with good friend Angie & her gorgeous collie, Roxy. I was asleep shortly after 11pm(!) and woke up with the alarm in time to get on the road at 3:56am, about the time I'd usually be retiring on a Saturday night. The plan was to drive to PB, rendezvous with Michael, the mom and the ex-in-laws (down from NE Pa the day before) & daughter Holly (who had flown out from Philly), do the ceremony thing, have lunch, drive Holly back to Philly, and then drive home.<br /><br />It's five hours to PB, barring a blizzard (which I know from experience), so I had an hour's pad built in. It was a pleasant drive, and I saw no other living thing except two deer (at a safe distance) from Harveys Lake to the end of 118, and very little for some time after that. Cruising west on I-80 on a Sunday morning with some nice music is conducive to a sort of mobile meditation, and before I knew it, I was in the long climb through the Laurel Highlands as the sun rose. I must admit that I did not realize that the sun doesn't rise until about 7 this time of year, which says something about my sleeping habits, I realize. It (the sunrise) was mostly at my back (as you might expect), but on the curves I glimpsed some scenes that would have sent my new artist friend from Cape Cod into paroxysms of ecstasy, particularly with the Wagnerian accompaniment.<br /><br />Gliding gently into downtown Pittsburgh, my spare hour unneeded, I was pleased to find the Soldiers & Sailors Memorial without difficulty. I pulled into a parking place (It's NICE to arrive in Pittsburgh on a Sunday morning!), wondering where to find (yet another) cup of coffee for the spare hour, and wishing I had the Sunday Times Crossword, when my cell phone rang. It was Michael. "Hey! Where are you?" "Just pulled into Soldiers & Sailors." "Wow! Good timing! But I have some bad news. The Captain's wife went into labor last night and the ceremony's postponed."<br /><br />Well, what can you do but laugh?<br /><br />"Is there no other officer authorized to Commission new recruits?"<br /><br />"Apparently he's the only one in Western PA."<br /><br />I was tempted to comment on the United States Marine Corps troop strength in Pennsylvania, but decided against it, realizing where most of them are.<br /><br />The next obvious question then was, "For when will it be rescheduled?" This is as yet unknown, but it is a concern, as I have a photography exhibit opening next Saturday evening and Michael & paramour Melanie are seeing La Boheme at the Met (I am SO proud of that boy!) I made this observation to M, and he said, "Yeah, I know, but I figure after today I have a bargaining chip with the Captain." I suggested to him that it might not be a wise first step in his military career to be bargaining with a senior officer, and he admitted he saw my point.<br /><br />So I asked him the last obvious question, "Did you tell the rest of the family?"<br /><br />"Not yet. I figured I'd practice on you."<br /><br />Oddly enough, this gave me a rather warm feeling, and we agreed to rendezvous for that cup of coffee. He rattled (that's what his Jeep does when it is moving) up along side me within five minutes and off we went. We found a parking lot off Forbes Avenue, and were off to the coffee when he told me that he had called the rest of the folks, who were staying in a Holiday Inn on the edge of town. I suggested we just go out there and have our coffee, so back in the cars we get and caravan out I-376 to Monroeville, whereupon we find the mom, her parents & Holly loading up the car for the return trip to NE PA. Friendly handshakes and hugs all around, which was nice, but as they had just finished breakfast and were worried about the weather warnings (which they tend to do), they set sail for home, leaving Holly, Michael & I to carry out the remainder of the mission, which was to get Holly back to Philly and me back to HL.<br /><br />So, without the expected break afforded from the ceremony and a leisurely lunch, I set off back east with Holly, and Michael returned to his digs at CMU, where he imagined Melanie was still sleeping. (Well, it's only 10am and it IS Sunday. I would be, under normal circumstances.)<br /><br />For some reason which I have yet to figure out, Philadelphia is slightly farther from Pittsburgh than Harveys Lake is from Pittsburgh, but the trip was pleasant enough with a replay of the music and chatter with Holly. Along the way, I realized that my current traveling opera mix is accidentally represented by no less than four languages - Carmen (French), B. Godunov (Russian), Otello & Boheme (Italian) and Die Walkure (German). How odd! I did not mention this to Holly.<br /><br />We squeezed into a parking place on South Juniper Street about 3, and by this time the combination of the caffeine and driving has me thoroughly zombified, and after greeting Sloan and his brother who were retiling the kitchen floor, I elected to take a nap on a cozy little love seat overlooking the street. Holly graciously provided a blanket and one of their two kittens decided that looked pretty inviting so she went under the blanket head first, did an about face and plopped herself down next to me, purring mechanism going full blast. It was marvelous and I fell asleep instantly. Scarface would be jealous if he knew, but I won't tell him.<br /><br />I awoke refreshed an hour later and declined the offer of a bite to eat in order to make the last leg of the journey which, compared to the first two, was like going out for pizza. This stretch was filled with reflections on the joys of being a 21st century parent, aborted missions and all. As I pulled into the driveway, I noted that I had logged just under 700 miles in about 14 and a half hours, and it occurred to me that if I write this up and send it in to a magazine (I'm thinking "Stars & Stripes" or "Armed Forces") maybe I can write off the trip against my sure-to-be substantial income from freelance writing for 2007. At $.485/mile it comes to about $335, which will probably wipe out my wildest expectations of income from writing.<br /><br />Which I do not do for pay, but because I must. There is no finer way to celebrate an aborted mission than to write about it in the company of a loyal feline - with a good pipe, some fine music, a glowing fire and a tumbler of crushed ice from my nearly new fridge, courtesy of a dear friend, barely covered with Speyburn's finest 10-year old single malt Scoch whiskey, courtesy of yet another fine friend, James Warner, poet laureate to the world and Patron Saint of Aborted Missions.<br /><br />Life is full of blessings.<br /><br />If I get a report on the Captain's wife & baby, I'll file it as an addendum.<br /><br />End of mission report.An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-31640102302909703452006-10-18T21:35:00.000-04:002006-10-23T14:48:36.589-04:00Cape Light"Cape Light" is the title of a beautiful book of photographs of Cape Cod by Joel Meyerowitz, but I am confident that the term has been in existence for longer than the book, and the concept for longer than the term. And there is no better title for this blog entry. Its origins lie in the general acknowledgement that Cape Cod has about it an unusual light, at once more intense and more subtle that that usually found in most areas of the earth. Various explanations are put forth - the unique geographic location and topography are usually mentioned. But it is not necessary to understand it to feel it.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b01.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b01.jpg" border="0" /></a>I had the great good fortune to spend three days in Provincetown for the annual meeting of the Norman Mailer Society. You will see a bit of that here, but mostly you will see the results of a good deal of free time with camera in hand. Yes, there will be geocaches.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b02.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b02.jpg" border="0" /></a> It was dark when Ifinally arrived in my room in the Provincetown Inn and stepped out onto the balcony. I was dead tired. The scene that greeted me - the Pilgrim Monument, artificially lit as it is, had all the appearance of being lit by the moon. It was a good start to the weekend.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b03.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b03.jpg" border="0" /></a>Those who know me know I'm not a morning person - just look at the name of the blog! But for some reason, I awoke before dawn. Glad I did. Went for a walk.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b04.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b04.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Dawn as only dawn can be on Cape Cod.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b05.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b05.jpg" border="0" /></a>This causeway is about a half mile long and connects the little spit of land that is at the very tip of the Cape to the mainland. There are two lighthouses out there, but no roads. I would have gone all the way across, but I knew I'd freeze before I got back.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b06.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b06.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Cape Light - pink.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b07.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b07.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Cape Light - blue.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b08.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b08.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />A rock washed by the sea and Cape Light.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b09.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b09.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Here is the obligatory seagull picture.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b10.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b10.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />And so into town for a good cuppa coffee at the Wired Puppy and some early morning pictures.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b11.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b11.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b12.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b12.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Cape Light - white.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b13.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b13.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b14.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b14.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Maggie, I think, presiding over The Commons B&B.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b15.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b15.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b16.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b16.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b17.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b17.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b18.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b18.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b19.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b19.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b20.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b20.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b21.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b21.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b22.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b22.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />That paper says that the books are free to a good home. How wonderful is that!?!<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b23.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b23.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I'll bet this lady wishes she were back at the prow of her ship.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b24.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b24.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />An unexpected joy. Cape Light - yellow.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b25.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b25.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Bonnie Culver, director of the Wilkes Gradutate Creative Writing Program, had a pretty good view. She got to spend a whole WEEK!<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b26.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b26.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b27.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b27.jpg" border="0" /></a>Chris Busa, publisher of Provincetown Arts and a lifelong resident, led us on a walking tour. He knows the REAL history of Provincetown! If you can see that little square window in the back, that's where Noman Malier wrote three of his books.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b28.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b28.jpg" border="0" /></a>Norman did pretty well after a while, and now lives with his wife Norris in the only brick house on Commercial Street.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b29.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b29.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b30.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b30.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Cape Light - silver.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b31.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b31.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b32.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b32.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b33.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b33.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b34.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b34.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Cape Light - golden.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b35.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b35.jpg" border="0" /></a>A geocache, of course! The first of three. Park on route six and walk through the woods.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b36.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b36.jpg" border="0" /></a>As the woods open, you have to go up this sandy hill. The information I had gave the cache elevation at 85 feet. Great! I thought - no tough hills to climb. WRONG! Climbing hills of sand is tough work!<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b37.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b37.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />But well worth it.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b38.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b38.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b39.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b39.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Success - a find!<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b40.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b40.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />And a little further on, the real reward.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b41.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b41.jpg" border="0" /></a>On the way back by a different route, I came upon this lady sitting by a pile of belongings looling like she was waiting for a bus. My guess is that she had spent a week or a month in that shack, and was, in fact, waiting for one of the dune taxis to take her back to the real world.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b42.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b42.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Dune grass - the stuff which holds it all together.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b43.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b43.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The Pilgrim Monument.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b44.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b44.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Mom & kid playing soccer on the beach - gotta love 'em!<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b45.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b45.jpg" border="0" /></a>Norman's knees are shot, but oh, my, his mind and his wit are sharper than ever. He gave a reading from his yet-to-be-published latest novel - his umpteenth, at last count.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b46.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b46.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Back at Norman's for a little get-togeher.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b47.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b47.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Looking in from his deck.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b48.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b48.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Site of another geocache find - down around Wellfleet<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b49.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b49.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Remember to look down. Cape Light - mushroom.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b50.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b50.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b51.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b51.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />A woodpecker guards the cache.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b52.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b52.jpg" border="0" /></a>There is supposed to be a cache in that odd thing, but I'm pretty sure it's not there any more. Still, it was a nice walk!<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b53.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b53.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Uncle Tim's Bridge in Welfleet.<br /><br /><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b54.jpg" border="0" /><br />One last look at a north Cape beach.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b55.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b55.jpg" border="0" /></a>A stop in Chatham - an old haunt - on the way out. It's too built up now, and even the air is almost too expensive to breathe, but oh, my - Cape Light!<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b56.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/cape/b56.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Chatham Light.<br /><br /><br />I hope you enjoyed the tour. As for me, well, I can't wait until next year!An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-34223548321002581032006-10-07T23:05:00.000-04:002006-10-08T00:12:34.758-04:00Can A Meadow Love A Man?This is the story (illustrated, of course) of a love affair. I know you can already see that first picture and you are wondering to yourself what a road through the woods has to do with a love affair. Perhaps you are already looking forward to something torrid, true confessions, or an Indie screenplay. No, this is a story about a love affair between a piece of land and a man, actually, a boy, but then later, a man.<br /><br />This piece of land is about a quarter square mile of private property within a good walk from my back door. It is a different back door now, but when the land first fell in love with the boy, the distance was almost exactly the same, so nothing has changed. The boy moved a little bit, but the land has stayed where it has always been, as land will mostly do. As a man, I am grateful for the access to this land granted to me by its caretakers.<br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b01.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b01.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I have used the piece of land you are about to tour with me (should you wish to come along) in several of my stories, placing it, oddly enough, in Virginia. But it is <em>this</em> land that has been the inspiration.<br /><br />This is how you enter the place - on a road through a quarter mile of fairly dense woods.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b02.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b02.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />You go up a little rise and you get the sense of light up ahead before you actually see it. This is a theme that will carry through the tour, and I think it is somehow significant - coming out of darkenss into the light. That's part of what this land means to me.<br /><br />Be patient, you will see.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b03.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b03.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />There it is, just ahead.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b04.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b04.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Whenever I get to this point, I pause, whether or not I have a camera, which I usually do. You should know, I guess, that I usually have a reason to come here. It's a little like going to church, I suppose, but going to church not just for the usual Sunday ritual that is somehow a sense of obligation, but going to church for some reason.<br /><br />Are not those trees and the light beyond them like the doors of a cathedral?<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b05.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b05.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Here is my meadow, or more accurately, the first in a series of meadows that are in love with me. I wish you could see it as it really is.<br /><br />Do you think it silly that I say this land is in love with me?<br /><br />How else should I describe a place that understands me as well as she does? (Yes, I slipped into "she" because "it" is not the right word to use for something you are in love with. I'm not sure "she" is right either, but it's way better than "it.")<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b06.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b06.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Here I have cried, yelled out loud in exultation, sang, written poetry, listened to music, stood silently, looked at the future - and the past, and examined the preent. Through all of this, she is constant. Is that not love?<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b07.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b07.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b08.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b08.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Let us walk a while. I will show you how this land is always different - always has something to give. Always growing, always changing. That is why I come here, because this land accepts change, embraces growth.<br /><br />It is a good place to come when that is happening to you, or you are wanting it to happen.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b09.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b09.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Say good-bye to meadow the first for now. We will return anon.<br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b10.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b10.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I fear this little lady stayed too long to play. She is all but done in, but still beautiful, don't you think?<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b11.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b11.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The woods are full of marvelous things, if only you will stop to look.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b12.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b12.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Like trees making love! (There, have I satisfied those of you who were expecting a visible love story?)<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b13.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b13.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And giant green candles in the woods.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b14.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b14.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And early Christmas ornaments.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b15.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b15.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And twisting paths with suprises around each corner. Much better, I think, than those paved highways with signs that tell you where you must go.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b16.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b16.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And choices to make.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b17.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b17.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Ad then a sense of light again - off to the right through those trees.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b18.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b18.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Another gateway to enlightenment.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b19.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b19.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Follow me - there is still much to see.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b20.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b20.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b21.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b21.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b22.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b22.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b23.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b23.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Through those trees, yet another meadow.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b24.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b24.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b25.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b25.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b26.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b26.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b27.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b27.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Have you ever meditated in a meadow? You might think it wouldn't work - too much sensory intrusion. But it does - what can be better than the sound of the trees rustling, the feel of a breeze on your cheek, the jays calling, the smell of the damp earth, the warmth of the sun? These do not intrude, they invite. Being in this place is expansive.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b28.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b28.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Back through the woods again...<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b29.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b29.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />...for more magical things.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b30.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b30.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And step again to the light.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b31.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b31.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The old pond is still there, although it has grown a bit ragged around the edges. If you think that applies to me as well, you are so entitled.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b32.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b32.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />You can see, as well as feel, renewal all around you here.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b33.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b33.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />You can find the flame of inspiration. This place is my muse - I am blessed by my muses!<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b34.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b34.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We have nearly come full circle...<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b35.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b35.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />There - at that low point in the trees in the distance - is where we came into the story.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b36.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b36.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b37.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b37.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b38.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b38.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Half way up the road I pause for a pipe. There's nothing quite like a nice pipe on the home stretch of a walk through the woods. Maybe this is where I should tell you how I feel about this place. I have flown kites here, launched rockets, done all those things I listed above, but about ten years ago, I wrote this:<br /><br /><em><blockquote><em>Every once in a while, you should make time to go to a place where there are no people, no man-made sounds or objects. Just clouds and grass and sky and trees. No buildings or streets. A place where nothing matters except who and where you are. You should preferably do nothing. Well, nearly nothing. For once, let your senses take over. If you must think, think about the forms in the clouds or the warmth of the sun, or the texture of the place where you are standing. If your “to do” list or grand strategies intrude, replace them with the voices of the birds or the music of the breeze. Let your ears hear the absence of the spoken word or the telephone ring and the motor running. </em><br /><br /><em>Think about this place you are standing on at 3:00am. Are there animals about? Can you hear anything? See anything? Are there stars? Are you afraid? Of what? </em><br /><br /><em>Think about this place you are standing on 100 years ago. Where was the nearest human being? What was he doing? Was he thinking in English? What would you say to him? What do you want him to know? Did this place look the same? </em><br /><br /><em>Think about this place you are standing on 100 years from now. What does it look like? Have your great grandchildren ever been here – seen this place? Have they sensed your presence? Do they know about you? Do they whistle Puccini? Do they love life? </em><br /><br /><em>You should do this occasionally. It will do you good.<br /></em><br /></blockquote></em><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b40.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b40.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Thank you, my land, my muse - for loving me, for your unconditional friendship, for helping me grow. You have been here whenever I needed you for nearly half a century, and I hope they leave you untouched for the rest of my years.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b41.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b41.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />As always, I will leave you feeling better than when I came, and on this day, I was feeling pretty good on arrival, which is pretty much the way things are these days. Maybe that is the cumulative effect you have had on me. But I shouldn't have stayed away so long. Lovers share good things, and I have been remiss. <br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b42.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/100706/b42.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />See you soon, and thanks for being here.An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-51954507553450733232006-09-30T00:30:00.000-04:002006-09-30T00:44:18.335-04:00Dodging the Poems<a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Well, so one of the benefits of this publishing gig is that you can get out of the office for a day when there's a poetry thing going on. And there's no more poetry thing than the Dodge Poetry Festival in Waterloo Village, NJ - a magical place for four days of poetry. Imagine that!<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b2.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The Big Deal of the Day was in this huge tent. A gaggle of reknowned poets, plying their trade and mesmerizing about 5,000 adoring fans. Who knew? Most of them were packed into this tent.<br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b3.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />But the real action was outside. The poems were still there, delivered by a crystal clear sound system, and the croud just soaked it up.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b4.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b4.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Ah, the magic of poetry!<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b5.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b5.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b6.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b6.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />"Won't you tell me your name?"<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b7.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b7.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b8.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b8.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b9.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b9.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b10.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b10.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />The Old Throwback to the 60's has a moment of deja vu.<a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b11.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b11.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b12.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b12.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />This gentleman, listening so intently, is the Executive Editor of Etruscan Press.<a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b14.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b14.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b13.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b13.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b15.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b15.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The last Flower Child on the face of the Earth.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b16.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b16.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b17.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b17.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Lord Jim of the Slams basks in the glory of his fame.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b18.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b18.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b19.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b19.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Alas, I am smitten by a musette!<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b20.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b20.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />She likes me!<br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b21.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b21.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b22.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b22.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b23.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b23.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b24.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b24.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b25.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b25.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b26.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b26.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b27.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b27.jpg" border="0" /></a> This is Mr. Billy Collins, former Poet Laureate of these United States, and my personal favorite poet. We had a nice chat and he did not mind a whit when I asked if I could take his picture.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b28.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b28.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b29.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b29.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b30.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b30.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This place - Waterloo Village - would be a nice place even without all this poetry flying around!<br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b31.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b31.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b32.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b32.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b33.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b33.jpg" border="0" /></a> Mr. Jim and the Eminent Philip Brady, recovered from his intense listening<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b34.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b34.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b35.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b35.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b36.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b36.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />There she is again! I am being stalked by a waif!<br /><br />Begone, musette! My heart is not my own!<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b37.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/092906/b37.jpg" border="0" /></a> Charter member of the Dead Poets Society.An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-1158126956225378752006-09-21T00:20:00.000-04:002006-09-13T02:03:18.056-04:00In Which the Old Throwback and Ranger Rob Go On an ExpeditionFor me, the last day of summer is the last day you can wake up and feel it's right to just pull on a bathing suit. The good thing is, although the probabilities diminish, you can never be quite sure it's the last day unti, say, the beginning of October. Last Saturday was such a day.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.geocaching.com/profile/?guid=63a15def-9774-486c-baba-76047886c1f9" target="_blank"><img src="http://img.geocaching.com/stats/img.aspx?txt=Let's+go+geocaching&uid=63a15def-9774-486c-baba-76047886c1f9&bg=1" border="0" title="Profile for MikeBurnside" alt="Profile for MikeBurnside"></a>But in the middle of the second cup of coffee, I got itchy and I called up Cousin Rob and said, "Let's go find a geocache." So we did. It took us two successive weekeds, but it was well worth it. One goes to look for these things becaue of what one finds along the way, and because of good company. Our tour will be mostly visual, because it's late and I am saving my words for a place where I have no pictures, so enjoy!<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I must admit I took this one before we set out. <a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b2.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Our chosen route was along the Seven Tubs Natural Area. <p><br />And it was a nice sunny day. </p><p><br /></p><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b3.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b4.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b4.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b5.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b5.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/b6.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b6.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Remember to look for the small miracles.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b7.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b7.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b8.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b8.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b9.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b9.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We are directly across from East Mountain Inn, and we have a ways to go. The sky looks a bit ominous. Press on.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b10.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b10.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />No sign of rain in the west!<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b11.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b11.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Rob insists the place is covered with fossils. I can think of two, but I'm not sure about these rocks. Looks like scrapes from ATVs to me, but I like Rob's theory a lot better. <br /><br />Using ATVs along thee trails is like cheating, and they scare the travel bugs away.<br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b12.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b12.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The rain started gently, at first. Plenty of time to stop for pictures.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b13.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b13.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Five minutes later, we were huddled under a rock. Lightning from Armageddon. Wind from the mountain tops.<br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b14.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b14.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />"Why did I let you talk me into this?"<br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b15.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b15.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Hail. I know it's hard to see, but trust me. It bounced under the rock, stinging our arms.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b16.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b16.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And finally, after nearly an hour, the rainbow.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b17.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b17.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We skidded down the hill as the crow flies.<br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b18.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b18.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b19.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b19.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The water had been nice and clear. Now it was mud-filled and angry.<br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b20.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b20.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />A week later, refreshed, we came back to finish the job.<br /><br />"Tell me again why we're doing this?"<br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b21.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b21.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The summit, graced with a flag that has seen better days, but still serves the purpose.<br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b22.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b22.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b23.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b23.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b24.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b24.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b25.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b25.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Not pretty, but part of nature nonetheless.<br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b26.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b26.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The water was once again nice and clear.<br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b27.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b27.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b28.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091906/b28.jpg" border="0" /></a>We left a band of small soldiers to hold the hill. We went and had a nice breakfast.<br /><br />Hope you enjoyed the tour!An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-70778512763418367802006-09-14T22:14:00.000-04:002006-09-14T23:40:07.314-04:00A Very Sunny Day, in a Nice Sort of WayIt rained most of the day, but it <em>felt</em> sunny, for reasons I won't go into. Had a good productive morning, successfully filing my first ever NEA grant, a nice lunch at Lowe's with Sis #1, and afterward a lesson in non-profit tax filing. (I should have paid for lunch!)<br /><br />I skeedaddled without hesitation at the appointed hour, looking forward to a bit of a nap and a leisurely literary sort of evening. But when I awoke, the sky was calling, so I did the kayak thing.<a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b1a.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b1a.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The rain had stopped and the water was calm and there was not a soul on the lake - ideal conditions. I looked behind at the near shore and saw that perfect mirror image of a calm evening.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Ahead, the sky was still ominous - deliciously so.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b2.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Over my right shoulder, a white army of cumulus soldiers was parading along the ridge.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b4.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b4.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And then I saw a strange and wonderful sight! An eight-oar scull, or sweep as I would soon learn, was gliding toward me like an arrow on the surface of the water. It was the real deal - the coxwain had a little amplified thing and she was trying her darnedest to keep the team in sync, with occasioanl success.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b10.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b10.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />They glided to a stop not far off, so I went over to inquire where they were from. "Wilkes," one called back. Wilkes! How about that! "ME TOO," I called back. How perfect for today, because I got a nice surprise in the mail when I got home. The day my diploma arrives, two teams of oars and an Old Throwback chase all the Jet Skis and motor boats off the Lake. As you may expect, I felt a bond with these undergraduates. Go Colonels! I hoped they were as appreciative of the evening as I, but if not, they will be some day.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b5.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b5.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b6.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b6.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Waving good bye, I went on my way, admiring the sky and the water...<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b7.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b7.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I rode down the Lake to the Old Homestead without looking back, because I had spied that little opening in the clouds and I knew the sun was about to.... well, see for yourself what greeted me when I turned around for the run home.<br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b8.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b8.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b9.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://home.epix.net/~burnside/blogphotos/091406/b9.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Yes, it was a nice sunny day, and I hope it's been contagious. Come back and see us real soon, but leave your Jet Ski home. Bring your scull, or sweep, or kayak.An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-1157425917537760292006-09-04T22:01:00.000-04:002006-09-04T23:14:04.303-04:00The Butterfly Effect<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_09040008a.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_09040008a.0.jpg" border="0" /></a>The concept popularly known as the "Butterfly Effect" plays a role in popular culture as well as scientific endeavor, where it appears in such disciplines as meteorology, econometrics, social sciences and engineering under the general umbrella of "Chaos Theory."<br /><br />In popular culture, it usually goes like this: "If a butterfly on Mount Fujiyama flaps its wings, it may cause a tornado in Kansas." In the scientific realm of chaos theory, it may be stated, "Small variations in the initial conditions of a dynamic system may produce large variations in the long term behavior of the system. " The flapping wing represents a small change in the initial condition of the system, which causes a chain of events leading to large-scale phenomena. Had the butterfly not flapped its wings, the trajectory of the system might have been vastly different.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_09040010a.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_09040010a.0.jpg" border="0" /></a>I have thistles in my front yard which are beautiful and, for me, sentimental when they are in bloom, but quite literally a roaring pain when it's time to get rid of them, which was today. Only a few purple blooms remain. But just as I was about to hack away, a butterfly arrived. I put down the blade and ran instead for my camera. The butterfly, as you can see, was quite cooperative. For a moment I imagined that he/she (how can one tell?) was posing for me.<br /><br />That, in turn, caused my thoughts to drift to a rather engaging ongoing dialog regarding ego and my posit that one's concept of onesself ("egotism" in the value-neutral sense of the word) can run a broad spectrum from points which I had arbitrarily labeled "being comfortable with who you are" to narcissism. I'm not sure where along that spectrum one might apply the value-loaded label "egotist," as in "He's such an egotist!"<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_09040004a.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_09040004a.0.jpg" border="0" /></a>Soon after, I came upon a Japanese beetle, no friend of even a casual gardener like me. The little thing was devouring a leaf, as Japanese beetles will do, and I had the instinctive negative reaction, although it was a leaf unattached to anything of particular beauty. And I'm sure the copper-shiny little critters are here for a reason. I thought of being too quick to scowl or even to judge. Perhaps, after sated with this leaf, this very beetle will excrete the fully processed roughage, adding in some small way to the fertility of this small plot of garden (such as it is), and make the thistles bloom just a little brighter next season. Or perhaps it will be gobbled up in mid-flight as a tasty, if somewhat crunchy, morsel by one of the kestrels which Cousin Roman has identified as the pair of large, gracefully soaring birds that briefly visited the skies over the Lake today.<br /><br />Gathering up the now decimated thistle into an old sheet (a trick my #1 sister taught me with leaves), I hauled the load up the side stairs to the upper terrace and thence to the "mulch pile." It's a poor sort of mulch pile, but Helen and Roman promised to remedy this on their next visit. Everyone should be so fortunate to have relatives who spend a couple hours pulling weeds and raking last fall's leaves out of the bushes (he said with embarrassment) when they come for a visit. But I digress.<br /><br />Frankly a bit winded after lugging the full load of thistles up the embankment, I sat down in the grass to enjoy the view of the Lake for a few moments. (Happily, my new little camera gem was in my pocket.)<br /><br /><br /><br /><p><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_09040013a.jpg" border="0" /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_09040012a.1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_09040012a.1.jpg" border="0" /></a>But then, resting in the grass, I noticed a little sparkle of dew. You can't see it in this web-enabled (so to speak) photograph, but there were little strands of web holding the water droplets like a crowd of tightrope walkers. I was certain I could construct a Butterfly Effect interpretation of this remarkable visual treat with little effort, but by now, my thoughts had shifted into I different vein and it occured to me that the Butterfly Effect applies not only to butterflies, Japanese beetles and invisible spiders, but certainly to people as well. And people, with their behaviors, affect other people and their behaviors, and pretty soon you are into interpersonal <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_09040012a.0.jpg"></a>relationships and societal development and things like "English Only Spoken Here," and weapons of mass destruction and, well, <em>chaos</em>! Or, you could decide to be one who smiles at someone on the street because you are happy with your lot in life and want to share it a bit, not because you are an egotist, but because maybe that person will smile at the next one and eventually it prevents, or at least delays, the doomsday scenarios that seem to be lurking in the bushes these days. </p><p><br />I walked down the steep steps of my back yard full of awe that here in my little domain dwell the solutions to all the world's problems.</p>An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-1157342185263195102006-09-03T23:34:00.000-04:002006-09-03T23:58:22.610-04:00Labor Day Blues<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_09030014a.0.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_09030014a.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Well no, not blues, really. But there's something about the end of summer that made me say that. It was a delightful day. I managed to get in a cyclecircumnavigation of the Lake before the guests arrived. Then I went to Olde Good Things in Scranton for a couple of hours with Holly, Sloan & Sloan's bro Logan. H & S are looking for doorknobs and such for their new digs, and although we left knobless (due primarily to the $34+ price per knob), we had a blast imagining what we'd do with half the stuff in the place. I was particularly attracted to a cupola from an old church that was bigger than my boat house. (Well, almost as big.) I considered that it would do very nicely to put around a hot tub up on the back terrace overlooking the Lake, but I don't know how I'd ever get it up there.<br /><br />When we returned, Helen & Roman had arrived and we indulged in a pizza and conversation orgy. Before we knew it, fireworks time had <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_09030022a.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_09030022a.jpg" border="0" /></a>arrived. H, S & L had to depart to Philly, and H & R and I strolled down to Doc Sgarlat's for a better view, which has been our habit of late.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_09030020a.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_09030020a.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><p>The fireworks were nice, but we missed the traditional boat parade. Sorry to see a grand old tradition die, if it has, but perhaps it was the ugly weather earlier in the day, or perhaps there's now a regulation against carrying flares on board sailing vessels, but for whatever reason, the HLYC folks were not in evidence.<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_09030028a.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_09030028a.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p>And anyway, to my mind, there's nothing like the fireworks you can get from a moonlit sky, that is, of course, if the conditions are right.</p>An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-1157259127332603492006-09-03T00:10:00.000-04:002006-09-03T01:02:39.706-04:00Rainy Day Joy<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_09020003a.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_09020003a.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />One branch of the family having departed and the next yet to arrive, I took advantage of the hiatus and the break in the rain to take a little walk.<br /><br /><br />I did not have to go far before finding the first subject, one of the last remaining full blooms of the thistle forest in my front yard. For those of you unaware, Dad would never cut down a thistle until it died. Good neighbor Mr. White, being a bit downwind, will have a flock of thistles in his front yard next summer, as mine deposited all their seeds in his lawn. But he mows more regularly than I (not hard to do, I admit), so he will probably survive the onslaught. Still, the vision of the White's front yard covered in thistles is mildly appealing.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_09020006a.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_09020006a.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The dock next door is simple, but it does the trick. And it has a nice range of tone on a soft-light day like this one.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_09020011a.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 319px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 289px" height="289" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_09020011a.jpg" width="327" border="0" /></a><br />Neighbor Dan, up from Florida, has got to be in his eighties, still riding a bike - on wet days! Now there's something to emulate!<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_09020009a.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_09020009a.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />On a day like this, Harveys Lake is calm and serene, which is a bit different from the typical Labor Day weeked. It will change soon, I have no doubt, for the sun will come out tomorrow, and with it, the teeming hoards. A nice mix.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_09020010a.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" height="211" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_09020010a.jpg" width="305" border="0" /></a><br />We even have a whale in the neighborhood to provide us with direction when we need it.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_09020013a.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_09020013a.jpg" border="0" /></a> And finally we come upon the gates to the past, or perhaps to the future, depending on your point of view, and it is time to return home.<br /><br />So doing, I watched the end of the Penn State game, not because I care, but I need to know what mood most of the rest of the family will be in. For some reason, it depends on the outcome of a football game. Imagine that! Then Scarface and I took a nice nap, got up and put on Turandot, which has been lurking in my brain since about Tuesday, when I encountered a brief excerpt somewhere and had a bite to eat, sat down to finish the day's Soduko (or Sudoku, I can never remember, but Scar doesn't help much) and check the email, which afforded the unexpected opportunity to respond to a response - a sort of layered meta-response - to a delightful conversationalist, even in cyberspace. (Jeez that's a run on sentence! Wait, I must go back and... Aw, what the hell.)<br /><br />And so, with the triumphant last chorus, I bid you a sunny remainder of the weekend - a different sort of joy altogether. And I must go to bed, else I will have visitors knocking on my door to wake me up, which, I suppose, is not very good form.An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-1157095951307072852006-09-01T03:10:00.000-04:002006-09-01T03:32:31.326-04:00Testing a new cameraWell about a week ago, I received in the mail the new digital camera which I had been contemplating for some time and finally succumbed when presented with an offer too good to refuse. The day it arrived was a bit grey, so I decided to wait to try it out. The weather gradually got worse and I got more frustrated. I even took a picture of my office.<br /><br />But today was pretty nice, relatively speaking, and the weekend threatens to be a washout, so I took a little stroll around the neighborhood at lunch time, and here are the results. Some folk may think these pictures do not represent the neighborhood in the best light (so to speak), but that is not the point. If you are familiar with the neighborhood, perhaps you have never seen it quite this way before. And if you are not, well then it doesn't matter, does it?<br /><br />Anyway, I hope you enjoy.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_08310004a.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_08310004a.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_08310010.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_08310010.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_08310003.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_08310003.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_08310005.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_08310005.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_08310006.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_08310006.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_0831004b.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_0831004b.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_08310002.jpg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_08310002.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And later that night, I found the test I had been waiting for:<br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/2006_08310044a.1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/2006_08310044a.1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />I think this little thing is going to be just fine.An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-1156742010430286492006-08-28T00:36:00.000-04:002006-09-03T01:03:40.780-04:00Thurber, White, A Lake, Good Company and a Corkscrew<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/0012.1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/0012.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I had one of those unexpectedly delightful evenings today, thanks to the thought of my good friends, Chris, Barb and Jeanne, to include me into a rainy day picnic. It's not that I wasn't looking forward to the day - there's something to be said for hearing the rain on the roof as I go about my desultory Sunday routine. But it was nice to get a nearly spur of the moment call for a picnic. There's no such thing as a bad day for a picnic, especially with this trio, so I didn't even have to think. Jeanne apologized for the "last minute" invite, but I assured her that I'm pretty much of a last minute fellow, so I attended to the business of the day (Sunday is kitty litter changing, garbage gathering, and bill paying day), took a quick shower, grabbed my new digicam, and headed out into the mist to Baylor's Lake, which I had never seen, it being more or less in the middle of nowhere.<br /><br />Running a bit earlier than I intended, I stopped in a crazily delightful antique (and whatnot) shop in the middle of Fleetville. Actually "the middle of Fleetville" is somewhat deceiving, because there isn't much to Fleetville other than the middle. Well the store went on forever, and I arrived later, rather than earlier at Jeanne's delightful lakeside home (and I know something about lakeside homes) and found her struggling with a recalcitrant space-age corkscrew. Seems she had removed the cork from a bottle of wine, but the implement froze up upon removing the cork from the screw. I suggested that it was a guy thing and took over, but to no avail. This thing had to have been designed by NASA in consultation with the Museum of Modern Art. It had retractable wings reminiscent of the space shuttle, and was constructed of a black unknown element and stainless steel. When you squeezed the wings, the gears engaged the pulling mechanism, deftly withdrawing the cork. But the gears were jammed and, despite my best efforts (albeit without proper tools) they remained so for the rest of the evening.<br /><br />It WAS a true picnic, after all - burgers & dogs on the grille, corn au cob, potato salad, et al - around the kitchen table. We are a rather literary bunch, and a number of books were passed around, and I was pressed (lightly) into reading aloud an E. B. White poem on the subject of catnaps which caught my eye. (I know something about catnaps as well as lakeside abodes.)<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/0009.1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/0009.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />After the main do, Chris & I took a bit of a walk while the ladies miraculously whipped up some coffee, ice cream and apple crisp. The rain had stopped and the light was nice, so I retrieved my camera from the car and took advantage of the outdoors to have a pipe. Jeanne's gardens are magnificent and unpretentious and her Baylor's Lake (it has retained the apostophe, unlike Harveys Lake which was separated from its owner by the U.S. Postal Service, which does not like apostropes), is not at all like mine, which is rather busy and noisy at times.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/0011.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/0011.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Dessert was served on the porch overlooking all this, and Chris took his turn with the book, with some more White and a little Thurber, and I followed with one of their recommendations, and before long, we were sort of breath from laughing. We took our leave at a respectable hour, and Jeanne kindly sent me home with the leftover shrimp, which I had not quite managed to vanquish during the happy hour. It was, as I said, a delightful evening, even moreso than one spent alone listening to the rain on the roof, and that is saying something!<br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/0015.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/0015.jpg" border="0" /></a>An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-1156213976567448862006-08-21T22:24:00.000-04:002006-08-21T22:32:56.583-04:00Here's what I was doing tonight...<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/032optsm.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/400/032optsm.jpg" border="0" /></a> ...What were you doing?<br /><br />Do not, please, imagine for one mement that watching a sunset is a waste of time or a sign of laziness. Some folks do yoga, or meditate or pray. Me, I like to get right into the magic, and on a night like this, I have the best seat in the house. You can never tell with sunsets. This one began as a ho-hum mackerel sort of sky, with intriguing wisps at the fringes. But I have learned that, like some recalcitrant children, or casual friendships, things can change unexpectedly. Usually, it happens slowly and, liked the watched pot, it seems that nothing momentous will happen. But look to your book for a few minutes, or pour a little glass of wine, and then return to the scene. The lesson here is twofold - never be too sure of what is to come (corrolary: be prepared to be amazed), and never be in a hurry to rush things along.<br /><br />Stop by some time!An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-1155099876420128392006-08-09T00:27:00.000-04:002006-08-09T01:04:36.433-04:00The Significance of GeeseFor about the last two weeks, I have been coming home from work and going right to the boat house. It was the hot spell, I guess. I get out of the car, get the mail, drop it off in the house, check the cat's food and water and give him a little scritch, then head right for the dock. I have a quick cooling-off dip, grab something to eat and settle in for a bit of a nap. When I get up, usually after 20 minutes or so, I ride around the lake on my bike and get all hot, so I go for another dip. Maybe I finish the puzzles in today's paper. Then, when the sun is still 15 or so degrees above the hill across the lake, I head out for a spin in the kayak. I get back well before dark and get something more substantial to eat and have it out on the dock, watching the stars come out, nice and cool.<br /><br />When the hot spell broke, I was already in these habits, and they required little modification. Today, though, I went up to Barnes & Nobel after work to look for something specific, but of course I was there over an hour. So the evening was a bit compressed, and I didn't do the bike ride. It was too cool for swimming, but I took the kayak on a long run the full length of the lake. It was a good day for it - not so many motor boats and a nice sky. By the time I settled into the evening's reading, it was well beyond dark, and a bit cool to sit on the dock. So I put a bit of music on and sat just inside the open sliding glass door - it looked and felt like I was outside, but the breeze was deflected. It was nice.<br /><br />Some time around eleven I guess, I heard a strange noise. It didn't take me long to figure out is was a flock of geese. I turned down the music and went out on the dock to look up. I could hear them all right - they were loud and ominous. I couldn't see them, though; the waxing moon was still behind the trees at my back. They sounded pretty low, but there was definitely a good size flock of them, from all the noise. Following the sound, I guessed they were heading a bit south of east. I hope they weren't headed south; it's not yet the middle of August! <br /><br />I guess I should mention that geese, well, not individual geese, but flocks of flying geese, have a certain significance for me, though I don't suppose it's unusual. When I was a kid, I fairly lived for summers. You'd understand that if you lived on the lake year 'round and didn't see many people in January. So I'd greet them with whoops of joy in the spring, and in the fall I'd yell up at them, "Wrong way! WRONG WAY!!!" They never listened. But when you're a kid, the geese just marked what was coming next - winter or summer, for ever and ever, into the future - just the next one in an infinite stream of changing seasons.<br /><br />When I got older, it occurred to me that when the geese flew over, they marked the passage of time. Then for a while, in addition to the passing of time, they marked a certain desperation for me - another year gone by and nothing had changed. It was more than that melancholy thing that some folks feel when they get a whiff of leaves burning in the fall (back when you could burn leaves). But I worked through that, not without some pain, and change did indeed come. And the significance of the geese reverted back into the passing of time, but without the desperation. I don't suppose they will ever be restored to the sense that they merely mark the change of season in an infinite series, like the tick (north, spring) tock (south, winter) of a clock, for one comes gradually to the point in one's life when things seem to be less and less infinite.<br /><br />So when I hear the geese, I always look for them, even at night. It's an instinctual reaction that has become, for me, a reminder that time IS passing, and it's NOT infinite, so I'd better take stock of things and see how my life is proceeding and how things are getting along.<br /><br />"Pretty well, all things considered," I thought, as I poured just a little more wine and settled back down in my chair to finish the book. I didn't turn the music back on, though. The gentle lapping of the water and the moonlight emerging behind me were enough company, or nearly enough, now that the noisy crowd had left the scene.An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-1151733747391148252006-07-01T01:42:00.000-04:002006-07-02T22:21:49.996-04:00The 22-year Flood<img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/blog1.jpg" border="0" />This was the week of the flood. Well, almost. It would have been a flood had not the dikes been raised after Agnes, and it was bad enough. The Wyoming Valley was evacuated (mandatory), and there were plenty of roads torn up and scares about a dam collapsing and washing away Luzerne. When I went to work today on the campus of Wilkes University, it was about deserted, which is not to say that it didn't take me over an hour to get there - because the expressway narrowed down to one lane at the rock cut because a creek had eroded the right lane. I stayed home yesterday, but the day before - Wednesday - I went in and got some work done. Then I went out to the dike for a look at the river, but I got chased off by a Luzerne County sherriff who was probably in diapers when I was slogging around the streets of Wilkes-Barre in the wake of Agnes in 1972.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/blog2.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/blog2.jpg" border="0" /></a>Back at home on Wednesday night, the water level in the lake was still about a foot and a half below the deck of the boathhouse. This concerned me because I have carpet and electrical things near floor level. On Thursday morning, however, the lake had risen that much in about 12 hours. I cannot recall such a dramatic rise. I put everything of value up on the futon. Later that afternoon, the fridge was emptied with the expecation that I would turn off the electrical, but I never had to do so. By Friday morning (today) the water had receded about an inch and a half, and down another 4 inches tonight.<br /><br />So it was a minor distraction for me, compared to 1972, when I spent three days on the third floor of my grandmother's stately home on South Franklin Street with two grandmothers and another octogenarian who had no other place to go. It was ugly, especially when my dad radioed to me to tell the ladies not to flush the toilets.<br /><br />The odd thing is that, in the 1936 flood, my dad was 22 years old. In the 1972 Agnes flood, I was 22 years old, and in this, the 2006 flood wanabe, my son, Michael, is 22 years old. If the trend holds, in three decades or so, Michael's son will be 22 years old, and Wyoming Valley will once again head for higher ground. Do three points on a line define the fourth? Stick around - we'll see.<br /><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/320/blog3.1.jpg" border="0" />An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-1150181329044362482006-06-13T01:54:00.000-04:002007-06-12T23:49:30.378-04:00Kick the Cat"Kick the Cat" is not an expression one hears very often. If you Google it, you will come up with an eclectic mix of things, including the following joke:<br /><br />There's this kid who lives on a farm. He comes home from school, in a really bad mood. He sees a pig and kicks it. Then he sees a chicken and kicks that. Then he walks into the house.<br /><br />"I saw you kick those animals", his mother said, "For kicking the pig, you'll have no bacon for a week. For kicking the chicken, you'll haveno eggs for a week."<br /><br />The kid's about to say something, when his father walks in the door, also in a foul mood, and kicks the cat. The kid says to his mother, "You want to tell him, or should I?"<br /><br />The origins of the phrase are unclear, but it does seem to have crept into the dark corners of our lexicon, to be dredged up when nothing else will do. The other day I uttered to no one in particular, "Well, I guess I'll go home and kick the cat and take a nap," and, even as I said it, I didn't know where it came from.<br /><br />The fact is that when I arrive home, my cat, Scarface (He arrived with that name, but that's another story.), invariably greets me at the door with a meow that translates roughly into, "Where have you been all day?" And, rather than kicking him, I lean down and give him a little scratch behind the ears and mutter something like, "Hi buddy, have a good day?" Whereapon he scrambles away with an energy release that has been building throughout his day of lethargy, which he has truly mastered.<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/1600/pitacat.1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5193/2580/400/pitacat.jpg" border="0" /></a>I would no more kick Scarface than spit in my own coffee. He is not a perfect, or purr-fect cat. He won't let me pick him up (which makes transporting him to the vet a task I relegate to my more callous brother-in-law, whom I have to thank for the cat's arrival in my home,) and he is a fur factory, which generated a nickname "Pita Cat" (Pain-in-the-ass Cat), which sounds harsh, but is not underserved. He manufactures fur and deposits it in clumps on the floor and in fine coatings on his favorite pieces of furniture, which I would rather he abandon, but which I cannot consistently protect, and on dark pieces of human clothing, particularly polyester. For a time, I collected the accumulation from his occasional brushings in a rapidly growing mass, which I had vague intentions of having spun into yarn and made into a hat, until a new friend was grossed out by the concept as well as the football-sized accumulation. So I deep-sixed it, with mild regret. I don't brush him as often as I should, though he seems to enjoy it. I feel guilty that I have no good reason for this save for my selfishness of time. And I don't think it would help much - a bit like rolling the boulder up hill.<br /><br />One evening, while enjoying a dinner with the same friend who bestowed the sobriquet "PITA Cat," Scarface sat immobile within sight of the dining table, staring at nothing in particular, and we evenutally tool notice of him. She noted how dignified he looked and suggested that "Scarface" was not an appropriate name. "He looks more like, um,... a Charles." Indeed, he is a pleasant orange-ish pastel with little variation, posseses a leonine profile, and whiskers that, were they to serve as antennae, would pull in the most distant signals from deep space.<br /><br />So the poor devil has at least three names, depending on the mood of those around him. In reality, he may have more, since he was rescued from an apparently motley collection of felines from the environs of an elderly lady who had to depart from her abode due to ill health, leaving the feline pack unattended. As such, Scarface was strictly an outdoor cat, but today, he has become so accustomed to my home that one has to entice him and wait patiently for him to venture so far as the front stoop. In the several years we have been house mates, I do not believe he has been out of doors more than fifteen minutes, every one of them characterized by a sort of grudging curiosity. "Well, if I must. But only for a moment."<br /><br />If there is a four-legged creature that requires less maintenance than Scarface, I would be surprised. I make sure there is always food (dry) and water in his dishes and change the kitty litter (to which he is faithful) on Sundays, and brush him when I have nothing better to do. In return, he greets me unfailingly when I return home, puts up with my eclectic taste in music, occasionally leaps unexpectedly onto my lap in those rare moments when it is not occupied by a computer, newspaper or book, and joins me in my naps as a warm arm rest, curled up nicely against my ribs. I am nearly as nocturnal as he, and spend my nights writing or reading from my rocking chair on the enclosed porch, with Scar napping (he is an olympic-quality napper) on one of the forbidden chairs to my right, occasionally rousing himself sufficiently to look my way with an expression that removes any doubt that he has a profound thought to express but finds me unworthy.<br /><br />Okay, well, that's about enough for tonight. I guess I'll finish up, kick the cat and hit the hay.An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-1147755807716632922006-05-16T00:20:00.000-04:002006-05-25T05:50:59.313-04:00NSA Leak Reveals Alarming Pattern in Domestic Phone CallsDateline May 15, 2006 - Washington, DC<br />Byline: An Old Throwback to the 60's<br /><br />NSA Leak Reveals Alarming Pattern in Domestic Phone Calls<br /><br />Unnamed Source Raises Concerns about Al-Qaeda Plot to Target Motherhood<br /><br />A source close to the National Security Council revealed today that the National Security Agency's program to monitor domestic telephone calling patterns has borne fruit. According to the source, since the program's introduction, the highest spike of domestic call volume occured on Sunday, May 14.<br /><br />Sophisticated data mining techniques developed at the NSA allowed analysts to profile the calls and an alarming pattern emerged, according to the source. Millions of calls were made from all over the country to people with certain characteristics in common - people, specifically females, with a median age of 67. A statistically signficant proportion of the women who received the calls were widows, but even more alarming is that virtually all of them have living children or grandchildren and these were the people that orginated the calls.<br /><br />NSA officials were reluctant to reach a definitive conclusion about the event, but speculation centers on an Al-Qaeda attack. "It is well known that the terrorist organization targets American values, and mothers are an easy target - easier than apple pie and baseball," a source close to the Bush administration who wished to remain anonymous offered. "You can be sure we'll be using our fullest capabilities to defend the Institution of Motherhood from all threats."<br /><br />Although the source declined to be more specific, this reporter has learned that the NSA is not resting from its vigilance. The Administration is contemplating monitoring all such calls through wiretaps, insisting that the pattern of calls justifies further action. "We will stop at nothing to defend the safety of American mothers from all threats. Americans expect nothing less. If we have to monitor every phone call in America, we'll do it," the source concluded.An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-1144563720637351172006-04-09T02:12:00.000-04:002006-05-25T05:56:07.756-04:00An Ambulance Passed BySiiting on my front porch (enclosed and with a nice gas stove) at 2am, there is little traffic down on the road, and I noticed the ambulance, or rather one of those new EMT van things, pass by with its lights going, but no siren. I attributed the lack of a siren to the combination of the fact that none was really necessary on the empty road and the comfort of the passenger. It was followed, moments later, by a car, and I leapt to the conclusion that the passenger in the car was following the ambulance as a family member or loved one. The conclusion was justified, in my passing interest, due to the infrequency of any other traffic on the road at this hour of night.<br /><br />Presumably this caravan, of sorts, was bound for the nearest emergency room, perhaps 25 minutes away, and my mind began the natural course of speculation as to the nature of the injury or medical anomoly - perhaps a shortness of breath, an episode of dimentia, or worse, a marital abuse? Was the person in the car remourseful or frantic with fear for a loved one? I will probably never know, and I wish the best for all concerned.<br /><br />And I am grateful for the relative peace of my life, here on the porch, with only bills to pay, work to get done, and people to care for, and for people who care for me.<br /><br />There is a lesson in a passing ambulance.An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-1144134375650568742006-04-04T02:57:00.000-04:002006-05-25T06:01:18.943-04:00A Productive Day...I made more money today than I received bills for in the mail, so it was a good day. I had a decent breakfast courtesy of a new, potentially productive client, worked for several billable hours for another, and finished a report (also billable) for a third. I also cleaned and polished the kitchen counter, did the dishes, and repaired Angie's easel, so all in all, it was, as the title says, "A Productive Day."<br /><br />I also received an invitation to be the speaker at the Annual Wyoming Monument Commemorative Association bash on the 4th of July. It's quite an honor, but I'm a bit ambivalent. It's the 200th anniversary of our fair town's founding, and I really know very little of our history, compared to some folks. Still, I suppose I could look ahead instead of back. I'm thinking on it - I have until Friday to let them know.<br /><br />My DSL service went out at a bit after 1am, so I fired off a semi-irate email to my service provider, which I used to manage. It came back on at 2:42am, so that wasn't so bad, and now I am going to bed. Don't call too early. I've pasted the tirade below:<br /><br />Gentlemen/Ladies,<br /><br />It is now 2:19 EDT and my DSL has been down since shortly after 1am. I powered down the router, two computers and the WIFI thingie, and powered everything back up. Still no go. I called 1-800-epixNOW and all "systems are operating normally. Send us an email if you want to talk" (or words to that effect). I can't send you an email.<br /><br />As far as I know, I received no notification of system maintenance for this evening.<br /><br />I run a one-man consultancy business and I work very late at night (as you can see). Tonight, which is not unusual, I was finishing a report for a new and potentially lucrative client, hoping to have the report in his email when he arrived at work in the morning (when I shall be getting some well-deserved sleep). I like this lifestyle, and I can live with what I know to be critical system maintenance when I am forewarned. Unannounced outages are extremely frustrating. (Can you tell?)<br /><br />Yes, I recognize (I was there, remember?) that unexpected outages occur, and I guess that all I'm asking for with this tirade is a little understanding, and perhaps an explanation, if one is available.<br /><br />On the whole, I am rather pleased with my service, and look forward to your enhancements. Regrets, I am not into online gaming, though I wish you success.<br /><br />Oops, there's that annoying Outlook pop-up announcing that it cannot send or receive my email, but I knew that. I'll just press send now, go to bed, and hope you can receive it when you wake up.<br /><br />Loyal, as ever, and faithful to the memories, I remain,<br /><br />Mike Burnside<br /><a title="mailto:burnside@epix.net" href="mailto:burnside@epix.net">burnside@epix.net</a>An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24813243.post-1143787646835381492006-03-31T01:40:00.000-05:002006-05-25T05:56:09.863-04:00Well-intentioned advice to a young blogger<em>Much to my delight, I received a nice comment on my blog from Evan, a young man from Illinois. Naturally, I looked at his blog (he's new to blogging as I am, and I felt compelled to leave im a comment as well, because I can see a bit of myself in him. I didn't tell him I was going to use my comment to him as my blog entry for tonight, but someow, I think he will not mind. Here it is:</em><br /><br />Hello, Evan. I came to your blog because of the comment which you left on mine, which pleased me. If you would forgive me, if we were having a face to face conversation in a good place, like a Barns & Noble or moderately gentile local pub, here's what I might say to you about some of your thoughts.<br /><br />You seem to be an optimistic person at your core, and I would encourage you to hold on to that, although it is not always easy. From your profile: "There is not much which I do not enjoy." Do not fear listlessness. I can imagine that Thoreau suffered from tremendous ennui on certain days around the pond. The way I look at it, the bad days are intended to make you appreciate the good ones all the more.<br /><br />As to whether you should be concerned about the world around you, the people around you, or number one, I would suggest, "Yes!" I find that my concerns about the world and others in my life are fulfilling for me - in terms of knowledge and connecting. E.M. Forster, a wonderful writer ("A Room with A View," "A Passage to India," "Howard's End" wrote in "Aspects of the Novel" some wise words - "Only Connect." He meant that a novelist should connect with his readers, but I believe it is a good philosophy of life.<br /><br />While we're on the subject of books, I sympathize with your frustration a bit. Not knowing your preferences, I can only in general suggest that you think of short stories as an alternative to novels. You will find tremendous variety, and they require less of a commitment. (It's hard to get bogged down in a short story.) Here's a suggestion: For the next three weeks, buy a copy of the New Yorker. It has an excellent (usually) fiction item every month, and their commentary on world affairs and people is first rate. (This week's issue has a remarkable story on Sean Penn.)<br /><br />I can tell we have much in common, despite the difference in our ages and lifestyles. Like you, I am new to blogging and I am a bit aprehensive about it all, though I have kept a personal journal on and off for most of my life. I think recording one's thoughts is remarkably therapeutic, and I encourage you to endure (hence this long comment) on paper or in your blog.<br /><br />Perhaps over time we will learn more about each other and maybe even become friends. Our interests are similar, though our tastes diverge. My music is opera, Dylan (et al), Celtic & Bluegrass; my radio NPR.<br /><br />In any case, I welcome your comments, as I hope you do mine. At the age of 56, I am not trying to preach to you; I am simply telling you that I understand "Only Connect." :-)An old throwback to the sixtieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08778714204897722762noreply@blogger.com1